


Patience

by Carpe Natem (Demeanor)



Series: Polar Opposites [1]
Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Worship, Dirty Talk, Fluff, Insecurity, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multiple Orgasms, PWP, Praise Kink, Scars, body image issues, dismas is a mess, rey is a stallion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:13:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26757079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demeanor/pseuds/Carpe%20Natem
Summary: Dismas hates to be praised, and Reynauld loves to watch him blush.
Relationships: Dismas/Reynauld (Darkest Dungeon)
Series: Polar Opposites [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1955455
Comments: 15
Kudos: 59





	Patience

**Author's Note:**

> I'm posting this from the trash, leave your standards at the door.

**Patience**

Sometimes, when an expedition had gone well, Reynauld would get in these moods. 

Dismas wasn't the biggest fan of these moods. He didn't _hate_ them, per se, as they always led to the same happy, sweat-drenched ending; it just never ceased to take a while to get there when Reynauld was this amorous, this consumed, and quite frankly that was time Dismas could spend drinking or gambling or lazing about instead of --

_'Be ready for me tonight.'_

He had freshly washed for Reynauld in the rented room's shower basin, surrounded by fancy-smelling soaps and sprays which he had mostly ignored; he didn't care to be smelling like a flowery brothel girl while he was painstakingly undone. He absently glanced to the grimy mirror in the small room of the pleasure halls Reynauld had rented for the night, irritated, embarrassed as he scrutinized what he saw. Hip bones that jutted too far, a waist that tapered to tan, gaunt planes that no longer had the hard definition of when he was in his prime, and _scars_. So many scars, shiny and ugly and latticed of an ill-wrought past. 

The brothel girls ignored them during their short time together, averted their eyes from them and giggled behind their elegant fans after a night relatively well wasted and money relatively well spent. Dismas tried to pay the clucking hens no mind when they had sucked in a breath, crinkled their nose in a grimace, then just as quickly plastered their too-tight, well-trained smiles back to their pretty little faces, untouched by violence or bloodshed. A stark contrast to their damaged sire for the night.

That was well and fine, and Dismas rarely had any need for a brothel girl any longer. He pushed it from his mind.

The brigands, so long ago and back when he was better-fed and better-muscled, didn’t bother hiding their laughter anytime Dismas would glean a new cut, deep and gutted as they pushed him to the front of their ranks, happy to trade the unsightly marks on his battered body for the riposte it earned him from their many enemies. Hell, a good number of his ill-healed gashes had even come from his brigand allies, cruel in their drunken torments of the smaller man.

That was okay, too, as Dismas' time in the brigands was but a poorly kept secret of years long past by now, their sneers and jabs barely even a memory to haunt him.

Still, as much as Dismas reminded himself that he didn't care what anyone thought of the litany of ugly permanence carved into his body over the years, he would hide them from prying eyes regardless. Some men were proud of their scars as if badges of honor. While Dismas saw them as nothing more than another day yet earned on the highway, rough and violent and teeming with those who would mark him dead, he was still secretly shamed by them when others had to see them.

But Reynauld -- he _savored_ them, seemed like. Anytime he got in one of these wound up moods, all handsy and affectionate and breathless, his eyes would scour Dismas' body like it were a gift to him. It was embarrassing, made him feel on display when all he wanted to do was hide them. Hide his traces of death, outlined white and harsh against his tan skin. Hide the underfed dips and crags of his body cut like stone when it was once supple with muscle. Hide his shame from anyone that might turn their nose up at him, _especially_ from the man who made him feel as if he were more.

Dismas couldn’t pinpoint when their rigid hostility made way to wary formality made way to chummy camaraderie made way to… _this_. To stealing scalding hot kisses between hallways in the dungeons, to sneaking salacious nights alone together in the pleasure halls. Months of distrust and cutting barbs led to smirks and hushed innuendo that eventually tempted them into bed together, and Dismas loved every minute of it.

Mostly.

No, he couldn’t determine when they had switched from ornery assholes to battle-weary lovers, but Dismas _did_ know how this particular tendency started.

For his whole life, Dismas hated getting praise. He hated the empty flattery, the brown nosing, the ego-boosting. He was a conman; he knew the tricks of the tongue, knew how to curry favor with a sweetened smile and cheapened words, knew intimately the advantage a well-timed compliment could earn someone. Women would blush and fawn, and men would strut and grin. Their pockets, their purses, their daughters, whatever Dismas’ true aim had been was made all the easier when he told someone how youthful they were in this light, how dapper they looked in this suit. 

Because of his life as a con artist, and a damned good one, Dismas found himself paranoid and irritated when someone graced him with sweet words. He had snapped at Junia at least half a dozen times before the Vestal finally learned not to shower him with her empty, Light-tipped kindnesses that knitted his brows and reddened his ears and barbed his tongue.

He remembered drunkenly telling Reynauld as much, to bugger off when he had slanted a coy smile and soft endearments for the Highwayman’s Light-awful singing voice, months before he had finally seduced the Crusader into his bed. Before he had _been_ seduced by the Crusader, honestly. That hadn't been the start of things, no. Their terrible, wonderful, time-consuming arrangements started much later, after the second time Reynauld had so thoughtlessly complimented him.

It was after a long battle with the Drowned Crew, after Reynauld had been caught in their chains, anchored, gasping and dying to their command for all hands on deck, after Dismas’ resolve had been tested and shone courageous. After Dismas fired the ringing shot that damned the skeletal crew back to the depths and liberated the Crusader from a watery grave. He remembered that night, at the camp, grinning and glowing from their win, Reynauld had turned to him with a heady appreciation and clapped his shoulder. 

“You dealt them a devastating blow, Dismas,” his battered, handsome face was split in a smile and Dismas lost himself. “Truly, your marksmanship is second to none.”

Dismas remembered the way he had frozen, mid-bite, ears flushed and any rude retort gone from his mind. He must have been intoxicated from their near loss, from their violence and their exhilarating triumph from his hand, because the praise from Reynauld’s lips had made him _burn_ with want. The simple compliment had awakened something in Dismas that, after so many years, he didn't even know had existed in the first place. An unexpected thrill coursed through his veins and flashed his eyes up to Reynauld's, who seemed to notice, though clearly misunderstood its meaning when he bit his lip and apologized. 

Embarrassed, Dismas returned to his ration; he had never so badly felt any desire to please someone before, not like _this_. When they made it back to the Hamlet and went their separate ways, all Dismas could think about was the Crusader's unadulterated praise as he undid his pants and sought some much needed stress relief. 

There was a sharp knock at the door to his rented room and Dismas was torn from his thoughts. Truly, it did not matter to him how they got here; it was a strange, organic nature, a living thing of its own that breathed life between them in hot, panting gasps. After their most recent victory against the awful Hag that haunted the Weald just hours ago -- where Dismas had leapt over the scalding cauldron to deliver the killing blow to the wench with a wicked slice and crazed grin -- Reynauld had abruptly grabbed him by the arm, yanked him close enough that he could feel the Crusader's rough facial hair on his cheek, and whispered,

_"The last room from the left. I've already made the arrangements, so be ready for me tonight."_

It was a command, not a request, and it _thrilled_ Dismas to hear that lowly tone, rough with want and just for Dismas. It promised a long night of unspeakable patience that Reynauld held an impossible, frustrating well of when he got in this particular mood. It was a far cry from Dismas' who would sooner rut them both to completion in a dingy broom closet somewhere, but the goosebumps came to his skin all the same as he tightened the bath towel around his waist and went to the door. 

Dismas threw it open, naked save for the towel, and growled out, "Sure took you long enough, old man."

Reynauld stood there in the doorway, freshly washed and clothed in a simple white tunic drawn in with a leather belt that flattered him perfectly, the gorgeous ponce, and smiled at Dismas with his infinite patience, which only grew the shorter man's antsy scowl. "Do you have somewhere else to be tonight?"

The Crusader stepped inside the small room, decorated with lace and finery and incense, but was furnished with mostly just a large bed in the center of it. Dismas all but slammed the door behind him, feeling too large for his skin from the anxious jitters clawing down his spine in anticipation. 

"You know how much I hate waiting, s'all," he grit out, clutching at the towel still thinly wrapped around his hips for a small amount of decency. 

In response, Reynauld turned and ran his eyes up the length of Dismas' bare body blatantly, appreciatively, glacier blue fading to a growing black hunger fixed directly on Dismas. Reynauld stepped forward, closer, and Dismas' heart skipped a beat by a half second when those large, calloused hands grabbed him by the hips, over the towel, and stroked small circles against him. "Patience is a virtue, Dismas," Reynauld spoke, a dark sound filled with darker promises that made Dismas shiver against his grip. "A virtue I will drive into you if I have to."

Whatever sarcastic, biting, most likely lewd response Dismas might have thrown back was lost at his lips when those hands dipped, cupped, lifted Dismas into Reynauld's strong arms and slotted his thighs around Reynauld's firm waist. He breathed out all the air in his lungs at the contact in a shaky exhale, unexpected and frustrating at how much control Reynauld already held over him. Dismas was shorter than him, but not by much. Maybe by just a head, he would insist, _if that_ , and Reynauld would just smile back in a near smirk, too patient and annoying for his own good. And though his knees and elbows were a bit too knobby, and his collarbones poked out whenever he took off his cowl, Dismas wasn't weightless, though the Crusader now handled him as if he were while he supported his full burden. 

That dizzying hunger in Reynauld's eyes only grew to his mouth in the form of a smug, cocky half-smile as he looked the Highwayman up and down in his arms, gaze trailing down his bare chest as if something physical. 

"I see you washed and readied yourself for me. That's good," Reynauld spoke, voice touched with a tease of praise that made Dismas shudder against him again. Dismas might have been embarrassed if he weren't almost desperate for more. "Though I don't recall telling you to be undressed for me." There was a hint of displeasure at that, a hint that raised Reynauld's eyebrow reproachfully, as if preparing to scold the other man. 

Dismas swallowed, mouth traitorously drying at this new promise in his firm voice, a promise for discipline instead of praise. All he could do was clear his throat, shrug in an attempt of nonchalance, and explain, "You always take too long with my clothes when you're like this."

Reynauld grinned for a moment, unabashed, then drew Dismas closer -- which was easy to do when he held the man in his arms, as if holding his very existence, his subjection, his to press close to him if Reynauld so chose -- and captured Dismas' downturned mouth in a kiss. The frown melted away immediately and Dismas closed his eyes, perhaps ashamed of how quickly his mood turned from quick-tempered restlessness to pliable need as he squirmed within Reynauld's embrace. Their lips were chapped from their hot trek through the Weald that day, but Reynauld suddenly moved his tongue in a certain well-practiced way to wet them, slow and languid, and it stilled Dismas immediately; the kiss was a lot better after that, smooth and yielding and moving against one another with luscious ease.

As they kissed, slow and steady and unrushed to match Reynauld’s frustratingly tempered mood, lazy almost with long pushes and gradual pulls, Dismas felt Reynauld adjust his weight in his arms, just slightly, just enough for him to snake a hand between them. It spiked Dismas' heart rate, froze his lips open and parted to Reynauld's, as that hand tugged on the towel sharply and caused it to fall to the floor beneath him in a damp bundle. He was bare, naked from head to toe, body scrubbed raw and clean and soft for the other man, and Dismas' tan skin flushed pink at the sudden exposure. 

He pulled back from the kiss, panting just slightly despite how relatively chaste it had been up to then -- for someone completely nude and at the whim of another, anyway. Reynauld still had that hungry smile, and with a husky voice filling the small space between them, he murmured, "Much better."

Dismas pressed his forehead against Reynauld's and let the passion shiver down his spine to his core, breath hot against one another as the Crusader led them to the bed, a large expanse of soft sheets and thick blankets for them to make a mess of. Gently, as if setting down priceless gemstones, precious trinkets, whatever else a wicked holy man might hold dear, Reynauld placed Dismas flat on his back against the firm give of the mattress. There, Reynauld hovered, propped up so he could travel the length of Dismas' bare body with his lust-lidded eyes, pupils blown wide and devouring the sight of him squirming anxiously beneath him. 

Eventually, Dismas grew too restless and huffed, "For fuck's sake, Rey, you just gonna stare at me all night or what?"

The Crusader chuckled that low, dangerous sound that shook the air between them with unbridled nerves and gently ran his forefinger down Dismas' cheek to his chin, softer than any touch the Highwayman had ever been spared. "What did I say about patience, Dismas?"

He gulped. He breathed through his nose and clenched, then unclenched his hands to steady himself until he was clear headed enough to respond with a fragile smirk that he knew pushed all of the right buttons in the other man, amorous as he was. Pushed him further into that commandeering dominance that Dismas was high on. "Can't remember. Something about driving it into me, I think."

A pause, a raised brow, a shaky breath, and Reynauld descended then, hot and heavy and ravenous. His mouth was a forceful thing, pressed to his own with an unyielding demand and no longer the soft, lazy kisses but heady and needy and reflecting the half-mast outline pressed against Dismas' thigh. Dismas keened and arched into it, the white cloth of his tunic rough against his bare skin, but he couldn't care about anything that wasn't the tongue at his lips, running over them and teasing them soft against Reynauld's, placated. Reynauld took his bottom lip between his teeth, gentle but forceful as he liked to be while in these moods, and rolled it over and over, biting until it was sore and swollen then lapping the hints of pain away. It made Dismas dizzy with lust and Reynauld knew it, knew the effect it had on him, knew the submission it drove him to, the way he _wanted_ it and Dismas was shamed. 

With that same unwavering control, Reynauld licked his lips apart, opening Dismas to him, and for a ridiculous mind-numbing moment, Dismas absently wondered what those Light-wedded abbots would think of Reynauld being so experienced around Dismas' tongue, the finesse that the Crusader saved for battle also being used in the bedroom. 

Reynauld ran his tongue against Dismas' until he was all but putty beneath him, then eventually pulled back with a self-satisfied half smile on his kissed-pink lips.

"You taste of wine, rogue."

Dismas smiled, nearly mischievous if not for the flush he felt at his cheeks. "You shouldn't have kept me waiting so long, priest."

The other man looked contemplative above him, and Dismas worried for a moment, worried at what kind of unspeakable torture he was setting himself up for and what kind of hole he had just dug himself. But no. No, he trusted Reynauld, trusted him to take care of him and embarrassingly so. Dismas' needs had never been seen to outside of a whorehouse, really, save for a few momentary flings with passing ladies in his youth that he bled his heart for more than they even took notice of. And regardless, no one had ever done so completely as Reynauld, tending to his every need, sexual or emotional or otherwise. It made him uneasy at times, if he were being honest, that someone so good as this Crusader could take time to make Dismas feel so… cared for. 

And even though Dismas were an impatient wreck of a fool who wanted to be torn apart and put back together as quickly as possible, Reynauld was patient with him. More patient than he deserved, or even wanted usually, and always seemed to know how to give Dismas what he was too scared to ask for with words. Somehow, the damnable holy man just always _knew_ with Dismas.

 _That_ was how they found themselves here, in these night-long intimate moments that Dismas tried to shy away from every time, but Reynauld was knowing and so damned _patient_.

Even now, with that hunger in his eyes, Reynauld chewed his cheek then smiled down at him. He was warm but authoritative in that way only Reynauld could be when he said, "Then I will teach you patience the hard way."

And they were shifting on the bed, Reynauld moving them until Dismas was pinned beneath him in the center of the mattress, anxious and horny and so fucking _enamored_. More so than he would ever willingly say, anyway, as he lost himself to those skyline eyes, still lidded with want and focused only on _him_. It made Dismas feel more than he was worth, when Reynauld leveled that tunnel-vision gaze at him, that mind that had such ceaseless attention to things, usually in the abbey or in battle, now reserved only for Dismas. He tried not to squirm, couldn't look away, _burned_ beneath the Crusader's strange, misplaced wonder.

Slowly, eventually, Reynauld reached down and grabbed Dismas by the wrists and drew his arms up, up and over his head until they settled heavily beneath the headboard. Dismas looked at Reynauld questioningly and he smiled back, somehow both so sweet and so conniving. 

"I don't want you to move your hands from this position, okay?" he spoke, then leaned down to shower Dismas in soft kisses, down his kiss-bitten lips to his chin to his jaw to his neck, chasing away any doubt Dismas might have had. The thumbs at his wrists drew gentle circles around his thundering pulse, soothing as they manacled him in their grasp. Against his flushed neck, Reynauld continued, "No matter what I do, keep them still. Can you do that for me, Dismas?"

Jerking, not trusting his voice, Dismas nodded and gripped the headboard. There were bounds and straps and means of bondage of all sorts hidden in this room somewhere, it being the brothel house and all, but clearly Reynauld felt no need for those when he charged Dismas to hold firm. Dismas shook with the weight of the responsibility, trying desperately not to fail him. He trusted this man, so stupidly and so completely, wanted to please him and earn that praise. Dismas had followed him into cobwebbed and crumbling hallways of the Ruins, into stinking sow-ridden filth pits of the Warrens, into molded overgrown haunts of the Weald, into brine and salt-soaked barnacle caverns of the Cove, and more. He would follow this man to the ends of the earth should Reynauld ask it of him, into the darkest of dungeons, shouldering the entire world on his broad back, and Dismas with it. If trusting him now, naked and shivering and half-hard, meant he got to see Reynauld momentarily without his burdens, then Dismas would do so and more. 

At his desperate affirmation, Reynauld pulled back and looked pleased with him, which rocketed his heart rate to pound in his ears. "Good, Dismas, that's perfect," he soothed in that low voice, just for him. Just for the man who killed and robbed and _burned_. "Just like that."

Pathetic, Dismas arched his back at the praise, a dizzying spell cast upon him as he thirsted for more, more gentle encouragement tumbled sweetly from the lips of this Crusader. _His_ Crusader. For a fleeting moment, Reynauld let him grind up against him, wanting, before he moved away entirely and Dismas let out a frustrated groan. 

" _Patience_ , thief," Reynauld spoke against his chest as he leaned forward and moved down Dismas' body. "It will all be worth it in the end."

He trusted him. Light be good, Light be anything kind and forgiving for him for once, but Dismas trusted him. It was stupid and inane and had led to his biggest regrets in life, trusting others, but Dismas couldn't begin to help it at this point. No matter where he fell, strong and gentle hands were there to hoist him back to safety, back to steady ground. It was that same absurd trust that held his hands in place, clutched to the underside of the headboard, as Reynauld kissed down his throat to his terrible, bony collarbone.

His lips were soft and tender as they ran along the solid edge of Dismas' collar, down one side then back down the other, the thin lines of hard bone lifted from the position of his arms above his head. Reynauld's deft tongue dipped into the cavern it created in Dismas' chest, the hollow taut with skin and bone that the Highwayman always hid with his cowl. It was too feminine, 'bird-like' or so the brigands had howled, but ‘long and graceful’ this tongue said instead, those lips traced the length of him as if enjoying the taste, the feel. They licked and sucked there, surely leaving dark marks as Reynauld's teeth grazed the curve, the peak of his too-sharp edges that sloped up to his shoulders. 

Dismas welcomed them, welcomed every mark the other man created on him. He always had, though he would never in his life say as much. But by the way Reynauld bit, then sucked, then licked at his sensitive skin, Dismas hadn’t needed to say a word. 

Those lips moved down then, down the muscled plane of his right pectoral, slight compared to the other man's but still strong enough, still impressive if not crossed with so many scars. Reynauld pressed kisses down each white line with reverence, affixing every terrible scar with a sweet rain of… of _something_ , something so far from violence and pain that it was hard for Dismas to recognize. He knew not what emotions were coated from his neck to his stomach and further, knew not what terrible thing clenched at his heart. Each scar, from tip to end, was met with a gentle press of Reynauld's lips and it was uncomfortable for Dismas, achingly slow and too kind. 

It was uncomfortable, how much he loved it.

Barely hidden beneath his skin, Dismas' heart pounded heavily, a drum against his chest and he knew that Reynauld could feel it in him, too, thrumming with heated energy. He might have been embarrassed if not for that wet mouth gracing his nipple, perked small and dark and sensitive. Dismas was helpless to that tongue, circling his olive skin hotly over and over, and it was the first time his command to hold his arms still was challenged. 

Reynauld seemed to notice, seemed to feel the way Dismas had to tense, clench his hands against that sharp edge for purchase, and the bastard smiled against his skin that obedience won out over instinct. 

"That’s good, Dismas," he whispered against the hard nub of his nipple, sucked and kissed and tortured to arousal. Whether it was some residue from his past years with a woman or some other ungodly obsession with Dismas' body, Reynauld could never seem to get enough when it came to teasing the smaller man's nipples. Dismas didn't question it, didn't wonder, didn't do anything but happily suffer the ministrations, body tense and chest tight as Reynauld moved from one to another. "That’s exactly what I want you to do."

One of his hands, which both had been holding him up until now, finally joined as well, palming up his trembling body to rub his calloused thumb at Dismas' neglected side until both nipples were aching, beyond sensitive and running heat straight down Dismas' core. 

Dismas threw his head back and groaned, groaned at the touch and the kiss and the praise, all showering his hyper-stimulated body with that tunnel-visioned attention Reynauld was so known for. As a thief, as a conman and a cheat, Dismas normally didn't like attention, normally shied away from anything that made him feel on display for others. 

But Reynauld pulled back then, lips parted and cheeks flushed pink and completely and solely looking to Dismas as if he were the only thing that existed, and Dismas' body _sang_. Those strong hands trailed down his body, as if mapping all of the progress Reynauld had made so far, which felt like barely any for how wound up and anxious Dismas was. Anxious to be touched and licked and _fucked_. After a split second deliberation, he playfully wrapped his legs around the Crusader's hips and ground upwards, as if to tempt him to act faster, harder, less control and less clothes and more shameless, mindless want.

He knew it wouldn't work, knew Reynauld was an unshakeable zealot for whatever his heart desired and right now that desire was entirely set on the thief below him being unwound like a ribbon, slowly, almost excruciating. He expected his rebellion would be in vain, but what Dismas _hadn't_ expected was the force with which Reynauld grabbed his knees and pressed his legs back into the mattress.

When he spoke, his voice was a growl, as if Dismas made some horrible transgression to his resolve. 

"Try that again and I'll take twice as long."

Dismas could tell, by the crack in his voice, that Reynauld felt that spike of want, too, that tempting wanton lust that shot through them both at the suggestion of Dismas open wide and Reynauld pressed closed. It was like a shot of whiskey, a whole bottle, coursing through his veins from the intoxicating way Reynauld pressed him there, steadied himself, regained his steely control. 

All the while, Dismas watched, cock hard and aching at the sight of his Crusader righting himself to the temptation that was Dismas. It nearly reminded him of their first time together, when Reynauld had struggled to look from the Light but couldn't stop himself in the end.

"Sorry," Dismas breathed, a smile in his voice having seen the effect he had on the bigger man, the stronger and more focused man, who nearly crumbled raw at the mere physical suggestion from Dismas' legs wrapped around him. It was reassuring that this Adonis of a being could be so lost to the moment, too. "I'll try not to move again." He gulped, loud in the quiet room filled only with the shaky breaths. "Promise."

And there he was, leaned over once more, tunic still rough on Dismas' needy skin and beard scruff at his neck. His free hand that wasn't holding his weight ran up and down Dismas' body, filled with implications.

"I want to take care of you, Dismas," Reynauld mouthed down his neck, causing his back to arch up off the mattress in search of more searing hot contact. Reynauld knew all of his weak points, the bloody bastard. "I know you want me to. You just have to let me." And suddenly Reynauld moved, shifted lower down Dismas' body, hovering above his stomach, and Dismas sucked in a breath.

He paused then, blue eyes flashing up to Dismas' ruddy umber ones, dark as brandy and just as sinful and begging Reynauld's for something, anything. He even clenched his fist harder at the bed frame, as if showing he'd be as still as the Crusader needed him to be.

Then, Reynauld was at the scar sliced into Dismas' side, betwixt two jagged ribs and straight to whatever lay beneath. It had been a dire wound, courtesy of Vvulf some decade back when the drunkard called Dismas to his quarters and made a fool of him. Dismas had nearly died that day, suffered a killing blow that so casually brought him to death's door with naught but a cruel grin on the brigand boss' face as Dismas faded to black on his rug. 

Reynauld had asked about it once, ugly that it was and dragged from oblique to his front, a gaping thing that scarred as large as Dismas' thumb.

Now, the Crusader nipped at it as though offended by it, then quickly kissed it back to a pleasant tingle that blossomed goosebumps on his tawny skin. Dismas rarely thought of his days as a lowly brigand, so far detached from them that he was, but Reynauld seemed ready to take every horrific mark, every ache and pain inflicted into him, and lick, bite, _kiss_ them away.

Dismas shook, overwhelmed with that squeeze in his chest that slipped his heartbeat to something more erratic, and Reynauld moved across the landscape of his ribcage with his tongue, leaving more shivers in its wake. He settled on the next unsightly welts of scar tissue, three gashes torn nearly to his navel -- a wayward swipe from the claw of a ghoul, he remembered. Reynauld didn't ask about this one, having been there for it. Having been the one to take a stance over Dismas' fallen body, bloody and called upon death's door, while he bellowed into the gruesome face of madness. 

He kissed down those, soft and gentle and barely there, down one, then another, then the third, and ended at his navel. Dismas held his breath then as Reynauld slid lower than that, down to his abdomen, hot breath ghosting the tip of his erection and blanking his mind. 

Instead of giving the Highwayman everything he could ever want in this moment, Reynauld slid to the side and dipped down until his lips brushed against Dismas' hip bone, protruding against his skin in a way Dismas tried to tuck away with a flinch of his hips. Reynauld stilled and smiled there for a second, then when he spoke, his mouth was hot on Dismas' skin.

"You were incredible against the Hag today," he murmured softly, and Dismas could _feel_ more so than hear the words. "The way you jumped over her cauldron to surprise her."

"Nng," Dismas grit his teeth and tried not to let the pathetic wave of pleasure that rippled down to his core distract him. As much as he felt his cock twitch at the praise, his natural reaction was still to recoil from it; that's always how this started, until Reynauld left him too broken with kisses and praise to resist his tender words. "S'nothing anyone else couldn't have done. Wasn't a big deal."

"But they didn't. _You_ did," and Reynauld parted his lips around the crest of his hipbone, hot and wet, then sucked a dark bruise against his sweaty skin. 

Dismas mewled at that, pitifully, and bit in his lip to choke back any other terrible noises that might be wrought from his throat against his will. He could feel Reynauld's smile, the brazen blaggard, and Dismas clenched at the headboard to keep from arching into that wicked mouth. Seemingly satisfied, Reynauld moved to the other side, very pointedly exhaling a hot breath at his apex, throbbing and needy and making Dismas huff in frustration. 

_This_ is why he hated these moods as much as he secretly loved them. Reynauld was known throughout the entire Hamlet for his unshakeable iron will, and when that will was set upon unthreading Dismas by his teeth and watching him buckle and break beneath him, it drove Dismas _mad_. The other man was more meticulous, more thorough and patient, than any affections Dismas could buy with coin.

There was a faint sheen of sweat glossing Dismas' soap-scrubbed body, but Reynauld didn't seem to mind. He lapped at it, at the smooth salty skin of his other hipbone, lazily, and Dismas tried in vain not to fidget. 

"You've always been awe-inspiring, the way you move through battle," and Dismas was shaking his head in defiance, eyes squeezed shut and overwhelmed by the pull of his skin, the sharp teeth, the hot tongue that swirled around the new mark at his hip to match the other. He let out a shaky breath, which brought back that soft, loving, evil smile against his hyper-sensitive skin. "Your belligerence, your wit, your _body_." He dragged the large palm of his hand down the path he had sucked down Dismas' body, throat to hip, slow enough to feel every bump of scar, every taut muscle pulled tight with desire. Then wonderfully, horribly, Reynauld whispered, " _You're perfect, Dismas_."

That made him suck in a breath which he couldn't let out, too caught that it was on his anger and disbelief. Reynauld had never gone so far as to say _that_ , and it brought the fragile house of cards and pretty filigree in the form of sweet words and tender touches crumbling back to earth around him.

Dismas opened his eyes, sad and frustrated, looking anywhere other than Reynauld. 

"I'm _okay_ , is all."

 _If that_. He wasn't incredible, he wasn't awe-inspiring, and most certainly he wasn't _perfect_ , but the Crusader made him… almost _feel_ like it. At the very least, he made him feel like he wasn't a scrawny, fumbling, amoral sod like he knew was true. Reynauld always made him feel like more than he ever was, especially in these moods, but that had gone too far for him to continue to let himself be deceived by the other man. 

Reynauld was moving then, up his body to straddle his hips, the hard outline of his own neglected shaft hard and thick against Dismas' groin but Dismas had no time to focus on that when the Crusader leaned over him, eyes bright and serious, jaw set. 

"I know you'll fight me on this, Dismas," Reynauld spoke, voice so stern and forceful that it commanded Dismas' full attention. "I know that you feel like you have to. Whenever anyone compliments you or recognizes the good work that you've done, you feel like you have to reject it." Being sat up the way he was freed Reynauld's hands to him, to explore the marks he made, to smooth the hard plains of muscle that Dismas always thought was too lean and to trace along the lines he always thought were too ugly. 

_But Reynauld didn't_. That thought alone sent a violent whirlwind of shivers tearing through his body, but mixed with the praise and the touches, it wrecked Dismas and he clenched the headboard, thankful for something to help stabilize him under that intense, frosty stare.

"If you're worried about me lying, I'm not," the Crusader continued, and Dismas hated how much he knew that already, how much he trusted him. "And I'm not saying this to butter you up or stroke your ego, though it could definitely use it." Dismas blushed at that. His lack of self-esteem wasn't something he cared to think about, ever, and was easily covered from others by his endless reservoir of cocky smirks and loud overconfidence, surely a slow and insidious killer but better than letting anyone think him weak.

Instead, Reynauld leaned forward and closed the gap between them, kissed him sweetly, tongue like honey as it coaxed him back into that gentle, relaxed space. Dismas’ grip was loose on the headboard by the time Reynauld broke the kiss, inched back, and said, “I’m saying this because you need to hear it.”

As he spoke, one of Reynauld’s hands inched down his body, slowly, thumb grazing his hyper-sensitive nipples, filling Dismas’ mind with lewd promises that became real when it inched below his navel and further. When it wrapped around him, palm warm and fingers tight, Dismas swore he could hear the headboard creak from his grasp, just barely over the sound of him crying out Reynauld’s name. He was so pent up, so thoroughly tongue-loved and teased to a stupor that all it took was a series of quick strokes to take him to the edge.

And still, Reynauld whispered his praise against his panting mouth, so lost to the pleasure racking his body and causing him to writhe beneath that hot palm.

“You’re so unbelievably _sexy_ , Dismas,” murmured the Crusader, _his_ Crusader. Gods above, Dismas couldn’t even see straight, couldn’t focus on anything but that hot pressure stroking him relentlessly and whiting his mind. That voice, though, fierce and tender all the same, and just for _him_ , it pierced the haze of his nearing orgasm, spoken on his lips and echoed in his mind, praise that shot straight to his core that came closer and closer to the brink of oblivion. “You’re clever and capable and _mine_.”

He broke then, broke to the praise and adoration, the chiding compliments that he had never hoped to hear, never wanted to hear from anyone other than this man. He broke, and a sob tore through his throat as his cock wept in Reynauld's hands, hot release filling his fist to leak out the sides. 

His body was taut and rigid as he peaked, thrusting his orgasm into that tight pressure, that large hand that shook him as it pumped him through it. Slowly, he unwound, just the way Reynauld had wanted him to from the start, body falling limp and grasp on the headboard so loose that he nearly let go entirely. His mouth hung slack to accommodate the deep breathes he sucked in as Reynauld continued to shower him in kisses and praise.

Dismas floated, mind fuzzy and vacant and lost if not for those holy hands steadying him, anchoring him to the bed, to Reynauld. Languid, if not for that hard cock still outlined in tight pants pressed to Dismas' thigh. Reynauld wasn't finished with him just yet, the demanding roll of his hips told Dismas.

The god-damned Crusader and his Light-damned patience would be the death of Dismas. 

He wet his lips, dried from desperately refilling his depleted lungs, and tried not to shy away from the man who pulled back to smile down at him. Reynauld's hand was a mess, covered in Dismas' pent up release, and with his other hand, the Crusader unfastened his belt and threw it on the bed, then yanked off his white tunic in one rough motion. Perhaps the holy man's ever-lasting patience was finally waning, Dismas thought with a lazy smirk.

Reynauld wiped his hand clean of the sticky mess in his tunic, then discarded it to the floor so he could focus his attention back to Dismas.

"You're still holding the bedframe," said Reynauld with a half smile. It made Dismas shake, made him swallow thickly, that sore as his arms were, he hadn't let go. Dismas nodded at that, words lost, and Reynauld’s smile grew into something full and genuine and just for him. "I'm impressed -- " Dismas was more than pliant to the praise now and bit his lip at it, heady with a ridiculous sense of pride at such a mundane task. " -- but you can let go now."

The groan that left Dismas' mouth was full-body and visceral as he let go of the headboard and his shoulders loosened, taut and clenched for Light-knows how long. He tried to settle in, tried to relax, but Reynauld made it very clear once more that he wasn't yet finished of him with another meaningful roll of his hips to Dismas' thigh. 

Dismas was broken, in the best of ways, and lost to Reynauld's indomitable will as he leaned back over and nuzzled into the crook of his neck. He kissed and licked there, patient, as if he had all of the time in the world -- and Dismas supposed that they _did_ have all night together, so he tried to be still for that hot mouth, sucking and wanting and forebearing. But eventually, Dismas began to squirm, unsure of how much longer he could handle his neck and shoulder being tortured by the ever-tempered man who then traced filthy, obscene words into Dismas' sensitive skin in response. 

"I love the way you look when you do that," Reynauld whispered, voice husky and ready. "When you come for me."

And Dismas was trembling again, blind with unbidden lust at those words, crude and salacious and exactly what he had been begging to hear in his dreams, his fantasies. For the countless time, Reynauld knew exactly how to reach within him and strum that untouched cord, so deep in his psyche that he was too scared, too ignorant to know _what_ to ask for or _how_ to ask it. They enjoyed dirty-talk, sure, but _this_ was something so far beyond what Dismas could ever hope to hear, hot on his skin and just for him.

" _Fuck_ , Rey."

"Light above, I _need_ you, Dismas," Reynauld rutted against his thigh again, erection stiff in the bend where his leg met his hips and Dismas groaned out. Slowly, Dismas pressed up, ground back against that thick pressure throbbing at his thigh and Reynauld sighed out above him, "I've never felt as weak as I do with you naked beneath me."

That took Dismas' breath away, stupidly, heart aching and voice catching at Reynauld's words. The mindless oaf, the blessed knight -- Reynauld was all things good and strong and true in the world, he was Light and hope incarnate, a hero and legend among common, pathetic men like Dismas. He was ashamed of how much he internally idolized the other man, embarrassed by how safe he felt behind the better man's charge when traversing unknown territories and dark dungeons together. Reynauld didn't need Dismas, no, Dismas needed _him_. 

Reynauld seemed to sense something in him, the ugly doubt that again clawed at his mind and he pressed a kiss to the side of Dismas' sweaty head, his stubble moving against the short cut of Dismas' hair there. Dismas shivered, and Reynauld spoke.

"You can doubt me all you want for now, Dismas," he murmured, teeth gritted as he slowed his steady grinding to a halt and pulled back. "But by the time I'm finished tonight, you'll have no thought left to question me."

It was a promise, and it made Dismas pull his lip between his teeth, anxious in anticipation, hyper aware of his cock twitching at Reynauld's praise. He was spent, but not done, exhausted in his age but fervid in his lust. No, they weren't done yet, not if this Crusader had anything left to say about it, words dripping in longing and worship. It was ridiculous, insane and left Dismas feeling raw all over. Reynauld's chest was bare and he was glad for it, glad to have the rough tunic gone and replaced by his sweat glossed skin, all corded with thick, battle-carved muscles that Dismas ran his tired fingers along.

But then he was gone from his touch, pulled back too far and slid down too low for Dismas to reach him, and Dismas watched with reddened checks as Reynauld knelt, hands trailing down Dismas' love-bitten chest, down his scar-kissed abdomen, down over his tensing thighs, those strong fingers pressing divots into his skin as they moved down, down, down to his ankles. 

Dismas' brows drew together with a huff as he watched Reynauld lift each leg, grip firm to keep the Highwayman still, and press a chaste kiss to the arch of each foot.  
" _For fuck's sake_ , Rey," Dismas mumbled, cheeks red at the foreign attention to such overly sensitive areas. When Reynauld got in these moods, not a single inch on Dismas' body went ignored; another reason he _hated, loved_ these moods. With a pathetic growl laced with a whine, he bit out, "How much longer are you gonna make me wait?"

He was kissing at each toe as those stormy eyes flicked up to his and he exhaled a hot breath when he answered. "As long as I can have you like this."

And Dismas closed his eyes at that, too embarrassed, too exposed, too rendered open and vulnerable as Reynauld's tongue flicked out. He had never cared for this, never _asked_ this of the Crusader, but he heard the pull of fabric and when he opened his eyes again, his chest caught painfully. Reynauld had pulled his pants low enough to free his own cock, thick and slick in his hand as he stroked himself, composure crumbling and lips kissing up to Dismas' bony ankle. 

_Always_ , he might have said if he were some besotted sap like the Crusader. _For as long as this Light-bedamned Hamlet will let us stay alive like this_.

Instead, he just panted into his fist as he watched Reynauld palm himself, long relaxed strokes that started to stutter as he moved up Dismas' leg, hot breath beckoning goosebumps to his skin. Dismas wasn't sure what to hold onto without being asked to, so he reached down the moment Reynauld was within grabbing distance to steady himself. He might lose himself, float from the bed into nothingness without Reynauld there, sucking marks into his thighs, moving up and up until --

Dismas' back arched off the bed sharply and he bit into his palm to stifle whatever terrible noise he might have made when Reynauld's unforgiving mouth reached the tip of his overly-sensitive cock with a gentle smile. 

He was fraught with frustration when he slammed his hand back down to the mattress, flecked with bits of blood from the restraint he had bit into his own skin. All this teasing, winding him up, making him _ache_ all over once more. It made him feel younger than he was, pent up all over again and needy and he was impatient with the other man and said as much. "Good _gods_ , Reynauld, I ain't the young buck I used to be. I can't -- ," he meant to be forceful, commanding but the words came out as barely more than a whimper instead and he stopped himself short. 

More than he heard, Dismas _felt_ the torturous chuckle so close to his half-strained mast and he flinched when Reynauld answered, "You seem plenty able to me."

A moment’s pause, a heavy heartbeat, and he opened and swallowed him then. Dismas didn't bother to stop, _couldn't_ stop, the loud moan that tore through him with shivers and fever as he felt Reynauld's mouth around him, hot, wet, all-encompassing. This wasn't something the Crusader did, not ever, not even while in these moods, and being Reynauld's first and only male partner, Dismas never asked him for it. But _gods_ , did it unhinge him, the way Reynauld held still, exploring with his tongue in those same languid, almost lazy movements. Dismas tried not to think about how he leaked precum against that tongue, all velvet and slow circles at his core, as if to tease it out of him. 

Reynauld must have been especially lust-crazed to be doing this, to lightly suck and lick and indulge the way he was. Dismas shook as he went lower, insatiable, just past the hard ridge of his throbbing tip, that slick tongue tracing the vein that pulsed down with need. 

His breath shook and his thighs trembled as Reynauld licked him swollen and full once more. The other man was careful and slow, eventually reaching a hand up to stroke what his mouth couldn't reach in contrast to how Dismas would eagerly swallow him whole when their positions were reversed. This was fine, this was _more_ than fine -- it was intoxicating the way Reynauld explored, hesitant almost, pushing his limits and his boundaries to further coax those pathetic noises from Dismas who gave them to him wantonly. It seemed to bolster the Crusader, encouraged him to inch down lower to envelop more, more than Dismas would ever ask of him. 

"Reynauld…" he moaned, reaching his hands down to lace into Reynauld's thick locks. They were soft and flowed like silk between his fingers, freshly washed and a comfort for his lost mind. 

The other man fell into a rhythm then, bobbing his head and hand in time with one another that made Dismas' hips twitch forward. He stilled himself, forcefully, scared of giving Reynauld more than he could handle if he let go to the waves of pleasure racking his body. Already, that very pressure was mounting in his core and it surprised him; his nights with the brothel girls were always short lived things, borne of necessity and gone within the hour, a one and done deal to last him until he had enough coin for the next hour he could spare. 

But Reynauld was relentless, ravenous and voracious as he sucked his cheeks around Dismas' head just the way he liked in all of his unerring patience. Over and over, Dismas was unhinged and wasn’t sure how long Reynauld managed to suck him off, but that pressure was building once more and he was helpless to it.

He was going to cum again, his body warned him with the thrills of anticipation pulsing hot and heavy beneath that open mouth. _Holy shit_ , but Reynauld was going to force another orgasm from him and Dismas tried to warn him, tried to say anything at all as his body tensed and coiled readily. Somehow, blessedly Reynauld understood his wordless pleas and pulled back before Dismas plunged any closer to his climax, a smug, irritating smile on his perfect face, lips wet and swollen from sucking the Highwayman's cock. Dismas glared at him, but the effect was ruined by the way his body trembled with every breath the Crusader exhaled against him.

"Did you check the drawers for oils?" Reynauld asked, surely knowing that _yes_ , it was the first thing Dismas looked for. 

Still, Dismas nodded and said, "It's on the left," then covered his eyes with a forearm as he listened to Reynauld take off his pants and dig around in the drawer for the vial, unscrew it, then settled back to his position between Dismas' open legs. He was ready and squirming and impatient, but knew Reynauld liked to take his time with this, the smitten git. Really, it was partially Dismas' fault; that very first night that he had spread himself to Reynauld, he had been extra thorough with himself to accommodate the other man's size. It was practical, and maybe he _did_ put on a bit of a show for their first time together, but either way, Reynauld was always just as attentive, just as obsessed, when he prepared Dismas for him with those thick fingers of his.

Those same fingers slid into him then, one at a time, drawing a carnal noise that Dismas didn't care to stifle. His whole life, he had been told he was too loud -- especially being a thief -- but Reynauld seemed to revel in it. He watched the way it made Reynauld's cheeks redden, the way those gunmetal eyes traced the length of his body which arched and writhed as it so willingly took in those fingers, gentle and tender but firm and demanding all the same. They found the spot in Dismas that blinded him, brought him teetering back to the edge of his climax and forcing him to look to its depths, those rivets in his sanity that threatened to swallow him whole if not for the luscious praise tumbling from Reynauld’s lips in shaky gasps.

"If you could see yourself," Reynauld shook, unforgiving fingertips grazing Dismas' prostate and hitching his breath to near sobs. "You would understand why I'm so ruined by you, Dismas."

Dismas' body demanded release once more, held over that precipice by Reynauld still whispering loving filth at his ear, fingers deep inside him, wanting so badly for the Crusader to let him fall and yield to that building pressure so tight at his core that it dripped from his tip. And suddenly it was gone, those fingers sliding free of his entrance with a lewd pull and making Dismas huff in anger. In impatience.

But he wasn't the only one impatient now, torn at the seams and lost to his lust, as Reynauld sat back and pulled Dismas up with him, who was all but compliant in his hands. 

Reynauld adjusted them so that Dismas was seated in his lap, legs spread open wide and knees on either side of Reynauld's hips. It was tantalizingly close to where Dismas wanted him, _needed_ him, but the Crusader stopped there and grabbed for his discarded belt instead, a sudden herald of infuriating patience once more. The unexpected shift in the mood made Dismas swallow thickly, fidgeting in the other man's lap as Reynauld looked up and met Dismas' dark earthen eyes with his own hesitant ones. 

"Is this okay?" 

The question made Dismas breathe out a laugh in disbelief. Like Dismas was the sort to turn down any offer made within the bedroom; he thought Reynauld knew him better than that, but he still nodded shakily and Reynauld went to work securing his wrists together behind his back. Bound, shameless, Dismas reveled in the lack of control, lack of burden as Reynauld so willingly took it from him, hands gentle but tugging the leather tight at his wrists. It wasn’t tight enough to cut off circulation, blessedly, but it was tied to the point of keeping Dismas still.

That allowed the Crusader full authority over him, to maneuver and position him as he liked, and Reynauld did so eagerly until he had Dismas’ asschecks in each hand, spread and held just at the tip of his cock. 

Dismas tried desperately not to curse, not to lash out and squirm against his new bonds, and instead just leaned his forehead against Reynauld’s thick shoulder and panted against it. They stayed like that, for far too long, held suspended in time against one another, Dismas open and ready and Reynauld gasping for composure until eventually he groaned out, " _Gods above_ , I always lose control of myself when I'm with you."

Then sunk in.

It was slow, but unabating, one long and measured thrust into his very core, choking Dismas on his words and leaving him helpless for air. Reynauld didn’t stop, didn’t falter or give him any time to adjust, merely groaned against his tan skin as he pressed all the way inside until Dismas was flushed with Reynauld's hips, a harsh contrast against Reynauld's alabaster hips.

That thick cock throbbed within him as they shifted together, his ass stretching to fit Reynauld’s girth and Dismas keening out a soft noise when Reynauld slowly pulled back out. It was tortuous, contending with the tight, salacious pull of Dismas’ entrance, but a moment later, Reynauld’s hips snapped back against his, slotting them together. Dismas could only hold himself up by his knees, arms uselessly tied at his back while his body was held in place by Reynauld’s strong hands cupped beneath his asscheeks, and he loved the loss of dominion strapped tight around his wrists. He was Reynauld’s, Reynauld’s to taste and lick, to bite and bleed, to fuck and own and Dismas lost himself to the building rhythm, in and out of his core.

“You feel so good, Dismas,” Reynauld whispered into his ear, making Dismas clench all over. Usually, it was the Highwayman biting out vulgar, perverted nothings to Reynauld as he fucked Dismas to oblivion, but Reynauld had been more… eager, more _obscene_ than usual the way he saw straight through to Dismas’ desires, spoke illicit words that ruined the smaller man. “You always feel so _fucking incredible_.”

And that hitched Dismas' breath.

Reynauld _never_ cursed. For Light’s sake, even up against the worst of fiends and Eldritch horrors, Reynauld held his tongue to a holy standard and refrained from using such base language around others. To know that he was crumbling so hard, so thoroughly, beneath Dismas, it was like the finest drug. 

" _Gods_ , Rey, _please_ ," Dismas was begging, but he didn't know what for. Reynauld seemed to, though, just as he always did, and ground up into Dismas' hips, rutting himself further, deeper. His demanding hands brought Dismas down against him, thrust for thrust.

Dismas whimpered against him, writhed against his makeshift leather bonds and into that pressure grinding into him, choking him from below, hot and heavy and rhythmic. He was at the edge again and just needed a simple touch to throw him over, back into the white mindless abandon that was just at the edges of his vision, and Reynauld knew. Knew exactly what he needed, as he always did in these moods, and reached between them, teasing a loud groan from Dismas when he gave him that pressure at his neglected prick. That damnable blessed hand moved in time with the rest of him, pumping in sharp parallel jerks to those deep thrusts chipping away at Dismas' equilibrium and gaining momentum. 

He knew Reynauld was close, knew by the way the Crusader tensed with each peak, gasped with each give of that tight pull every time he thrust in, forcing Dismas to yield to that pulsing cock. Knew by the way his one hand clenched bruises into Dismas' asscheek, knew by the way his other hand became a stuttering grip at Dismas' cum-slicked head. 

"I wanna feel it, Rey," Dismas spoke the words he knew would make the other man blush, salacious and slurred with his own approaching orgasm. "Wanna feel you come."

That's all it took for Reynauld to falter, to stiffen and thrust and finish with tight, shallow jerks. Dismas felt that hot, filthy sensation of Reynauld releasing streams of cum within him with each wild rut of his hips, filling him until he felt too full, then wincing at the hot beads of slick gushing down his thighs. The hand at his aching cock never relented, never stopped pumping him closer and closer until --

With Reynauld still fucked deep within him, cum still spilling from his clenched ass, Dismas pitched forward and came, _hard_ , so hard that he saw peals of light glinting in his vision. He called the Crusader's name, arms tight against the belt tied to his wrists behind his back, forehead pressed to Reynauld’s shoulder, and let the waves of pleasure wash through him, down his spine, down past his core and onto the other man's stomach. Reynauld whispered sweet nothings against his sweaty head as he came down with an exhausted shiver, body going limp and transitioning from so light that he felt he might slip away without Reynauld's arms around him, to so heavy that he couldn't move his limbs if he tried. 

Reynauld smiled against him, equally spent and fingers slow to untie the leather belt from Dismas' wrists. The moment he did, Dismas was boneless, jelly and completely at the whim of the other man who lifted him gently, just enough that they became two once more, and slipped them both back to the mattress. 

He vaguely noticed Reynauld cleaning them both with his already soiled tunic, despite there surely being rags somewhere within their rented room, but Dismas didn't care to move at the moment. Reynauld seemed to notice, and when he finally spoke, his voice was soft, careful. A far cry from how zealous and confident he had just been.

"I paid for the entire night, you know," he was distant, awkward, and it made Dismas affix him with his dark stare. "In case you wanted to stay."

Dismas didn't, not ever. Especially in these moods, he wouldn't be surprised if Reynauld were up in a few hours to do it all over again, the bloody sex-deprived, perverted old priest. There was a long pause, in which Dismas watched Reynauld fidget, seemingly lost of all his endless patience now that they were spent and flushed and exhausted. But there was something else, something surprisingly tender in Reynauld's gaze, something that made Dismas' heart clench in his throat. 

It wasn't often that he saw Reynauld unsure, hesitant and vulnerable as he waited for a response. After hours of being showered with praise and adoration, Dismas supposed he could forego drinking and gambling for one night, so long as it made that doubt disappear from Reynauld’s scarred face.

Absently, Dismas nodded his assent, still too broken for words, and ached beneath his swelling heart, which surged with something soft and cloying when Reynauld broke into a bright smile. The bigger man settled in immediately, arms wrapping around the Highwayman to pull him close. They slotted together well enough, a little too hot and sweaty to be comfortable, but Dismas didn't mind. Instead, he let himself be shrouded, the Crusader's body warmth filling every inch of him, and let his arm drape against Reynauld's waist. 

It was… nice. Not comfortable, necessarily, but more content than Dismas had ever been. 

Mindless, thoughtless, wits fled from him hours ago, Dismas closed his eyes and cuddled close enough to mutter, "I probably love you, you Light-awful sod." He wasn't sure if he meant to, wasn't even sure if he had said anything at all by the way Reynauld held still and stayed quiet. But slowly, eventually, Reynauld pulled back and gave him a soft look. Not overjoyed, exactly, but serene and painfully vulnerable once more. 

Reynauld placed a brief, chaste kiss to Dismas' sleepy mouth, then tucked Dismas' head below his chin. 

Dismas wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, slotted skin to skin and all-encompassed, but when dawn eventually came, he shot a bristly glare at Reynauld who had attempted to untangle them, surely to go pray or something, the irritating prig. The older man huffed a laugh and stayed in bed, arms bringing Dismas closer then pressed a kiss to the Highwayman’s shoulder. They fell back into an exhausted slumber again, a mess of limbs and warm breaths, and Dismas was sure it was the longest Reynauld had slept in for years, for perhaps his whole life.

When they did finally awake together, it was only because Reynauld had inched a hand between them to tempt Dismas awake who was, as usual, shocked at the other man's energy and patience.

**Author's Note:**

> This, and tomorrow's Impatience, are my first ever smuts and I am still in shock that this came from my dumpster of a mind. And because I'm a self-indulgent bitch for sugar-rotting fluff, expect more of that in Impatience, sorry. Any and all feedback will be read from under the covers.


End file.
